


Daydreams

by Anirrahn



Series: Fight Like a Girl [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/F, Introspection, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anirrahn/pseuds/Anirrahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't understand what it is about her that drives her crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daydreams

**Author's Note:**

> There's a severe lack of femslash Grimmons. :'(
> 
> Forgive my ramblings~ I just wanted some Red Team girls. <3

She doesn’t get what it is about Simmons that makes her heart pound and her breath catch.

The girl is always on her case about everything. She’s wound so tight that she won’t let her do anything without making some sort of scathing remark. She doesn’t approve of the way Grif works (or _doesn’t_ , rather), she doesn’t approve of the stuff she eats, she doesn’t approve of the fact that she smokes and she doesn’t approve that Grif doesn’t care what she thinks.

It’s been that way since the day she first arrived in Blood Gulch and nothing’s changed but the way she’s responded.

In the beginning, there was nothing but aggression and contempt. Grif had practically played the part of a single mother her entire youth, raising both her little brother and herself. It infuriated her that Simmons thought she had the right to call her out on habits that had gotten her through some of the toughest times in her life. She took out that rage by purposefully targeting Simmons’s insecurities, only letting up on the insults when the tears threatened to spill from her mopey, moss-coloured eyes. (And, sometimes, not even then.)

Later, it seems like they fall into a sort of rhythm. A pattern with words where Simmons will say one thing and she’ll respond with another in quick succession. It’s an intricate dance where they’ll go on and on, voices twirling to crescendo, till they’re both left heated and panting. In those days she remembers not being able to meet Simmons’s eyes (gleaming, bright, lively, _green_ ) at the end of their confrontations. She remembers aching muscles and silent apologies.

Nowadays it’s something else entirely.

The words are casual. The insults barely cause a flinch. She doesn’t know how Simmons feels about it but she likes to think that she must also embrace the comfort in their routine. Every gibe is welcome; soothing even. For her, it’s how she marks her days. On good ones, their conversation flows freely; angry words void of any true heat. On bad days, there’s hardly any conversation at all.

On terrible days, they’re nothing but polite.

Grif thinks a lot lately. About her. She sneaks away from patrol and lays down in the shade. She shuts her eyes and she thinks, but still she doesn’t get it.

Simmons is normal. Simmons is ordinary. Simmons is absolutely unremarkable. Grif has to beg and plead to make her try things she’s already categorized as “too dangerous” or “too risky”. She’s too tall, she’s too thin, she’s too pale, she’s too serious.

She yells and screams and laughs and taunts. She’s always the first to back Sarge up when he insists that Grif should be left behind or sent away (or even _killed_ for fucks sake) because she’s lazy and useless. Then, when it looks like Grif is _truly_ injured or in danger, she panics. She yells and screams still, but it’s different now. She’ll fight and run and there’s true fear in her eyes. She looks like she’d be willing to do anything it takes. Anything as long as Grif’s okay. She cares too much.

And when she does finally manage to persuade Simmons to try something new, she’ll roll her eyes and shake her head and complain and sigh. But it doesn’t take long before she’s smiling right alongside her, laughing as the warthog speeds up and the wind manages to free her hair from its strict confines. (‘Simmons was driving!’ ‘No I wasn’t! I was holding the arrows and the dynamite!’)

Simmons confuses Grif. She doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get _her_.

“Hey, fatass. Wake up.”

She opens her eyes, vision bleary, and sees Simmons standing above her, hands folded across her chest.

“I’ve been looking for you for _hours_ , Grif! Sarge called a staff meeting today, remember!”

She yawns and stretches, “Pronoun club again, huh?”

Simmons rolls her eyes (soft, smiling, _warm_ ), “Just get up. Even Sarge is gonna get suspicious if I tell him you’re still in the bathroom.”

“Covering for me?” she grins as she gets up, throwing an arm around Simmons’s waist and reaching up to poke her cheek softly, “Aww, you’re the best.”

“I fucking hate you so much.” Simmons is red-faced but her words hold no venom and she doesn’t try to move away, “Come on, you idiot.”

“Gladly.” She hums, smiling.

She doesn’t quite get Simmons, but it doesn’t matter.

She loves her anyway.


End file.
